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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE 



Old-Fashioned Garden 



AND OTHER VERSES 



BY 

JOHN RUSSELL HAYES 
It 



PHILADELPHIA 

JOHN C. WINSTON & CO. 

1895 




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Copyright, 1895, 
By John Russell Haves. 



gWARTHMORE, fairest! 

Ah, to thee 
Must my earliest offerings he, — 
To thee upon thy grassy kill 
'Mid thy meadows siveet and still, 
With thy charms that dearer grow 
As the hasting seasons go. 
In the summer of my youth 
Drank I at thy founts of truth, 
Joying in the ample store 
Thou didst ever freely pour, — 
Lessons out of Nature's page, 
Words of scholar and of sage, 
And the love of poets old 
Chanting numbers all of gold. 
Happy years and dreamy-sweet, 
Happy years, but all too fleet ! 
Holding these in memory 
I inscrihe my Book to thee. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
THE OLD-FASHIONED GAEDEN 3 



SONNETS:— 

The Golden Days of Old Romance 21 

To Bion 22 

Spenser 23 

The Garden of the Hesperides 24 

In Poet-Land 25 

Venice 26 

The Makers of Florence 27 

The Grave of Shelley 28 

The Grave of Keats 29 

Switzerland 30 



vi CONTENTS. 

Page 
SONNETS (continued). 

Oxford 31 

Ireland 32 

An Old-Time Garden 33 

On a Portrait of Lucretia Mott 34 

In Memoriam 35 

' The Groves Were God's First Temples.' .... 36 

Spring 37 

Summer 38 

Autumn 39 

Winter 40 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES:— 

A May-Day Invitation 43 

Whittier's Birthday 46 

England 51 

A Dream of Other Days 57 

Sweet Spring is Here 63 



CONTENTS. vii 

FLOWEKS AND FAIKIES:— 

Aurora . 69 

Crocuses 70 

White Violets 71 

The Fairy Sky 72 

The Snow-Drop 72 

In Blossom-Time 73 

The Rose's Reply • 74 

The Fairies' Supper 75 

The Mushroom Tent 78 

Cherry Blossoms 79 

The Fairy Fleet 80 

The Blue-Bell Clock 81 

The Fairy Crown 82 

Poppies 83 

The Rosy Rain 85 

Pink Cheeks . 85 

The Fairies in the Dairies 86 



viii CONTENTS. 

FLO WEES AND FAIEIES {continued). 

The Death of the Bee 88 

Pansies 89 

The Quaker-Lady 90 



TKANSLATIONS:— 

To Mercury 93 

To Virgil 94 

To Calliope 96 

The Bandusian Spring 100 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 

A MONG the meadows of the countryside, 
From city noise and tumult far away, 
Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wide 

And birds are warbling all the sunny day, 
There is a spot which lovingly I prize, 
For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country 
garden lies. 

The gray old mansion down beside the lane 
Stands knee-deep in the fields that lie around 

And scent the air with hay and ripening grain. 
Behind the manse box-hedges mark the bound 

And close the garden in, or nearly close, 

For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard 
grows. 



4 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 

The house is hoary with the mould of years, 
And crumbling are its ivy-covered walls ; 

The rain-storms dim it with their misty tears, 
And sadly o'er its gloom the sunlight falls. 

Ah, different far the sweet old garden there, 

For balmy rains and warming suns but make it glow 
more fair. 

So bright and lovely is the dear old place. 
It seems as though the country's very heart 

Were centered here, and that its antique grace 
Must ever hold it from the world apart. 

Immured it lies among the meadows deep. 

Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest 
sleep. 

Some like a garden where the hand of art 
Appears in every terrace, walk, and bed, 

Where vases stand in even row^s apart 

And shrubs are taught symmetric shade to spread : 

But little art I wish; enough for me 

This garden where the flowers grow in sweet 
simplicity. 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 5 

Fair is each budding thing the garden shows, 
From spring's frail crocus to the latest bloom 

Of fading autumn. Every wind that blows 
Across that glowing tract sips rare perfume 

From all the tangled blossoms tossing there ; — 

Soft winds, they fain would linger long, nor any 
farther fare ! 

The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedge 

And fleck its greenness with their tinted foam ; 

Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edge 
They love to wander from their meadow home. 

To take what little pleasure here they may 

Ere all their silken trumpets close before the warm 
mid-day. 

The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires. 

And up the arbor's lattices are rolled 
The quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires ; 

The tall carnation's breast of faded gold 
Is striped with many a faintly-flushing streak, 
Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's 
cheek. 



6 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 

The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes ; 

With golden stars the coreopsis flames ; 
And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms 

Dear for the very fragrance of their names, — 
Poppies and gillyflowers and four-o'clocks, 
Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and 
hollyhocks, 

Harebells and peonies and dragon-head. 

Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot, 
Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread, 

The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not, 
Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines, 
Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle 
vines, 

Foxgloves and marigolds and mignonette. 
Dahlias and lavender and damask rose. 

O dear old flowers, ye are blooming yet, — 
Each year afresh your lovely radiance glows : 

But where are they who saw your beauty's dawn ? 

Ah, with the flowers of other years they long ago 
have gone ! 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 7 

They long have gone, but ye are still as fair 
As when the brides of eighty years ago 

Plucked your soft roses for their waving hair, 
And blossoms o'er their bridal-veils to strow. 

Alas, your myrtle on a later day 

Marked those low mounds where 'neath the willows' 
shade at last they lay ! 

Beside the walk the drowsy poppies sway. 
More deep of hue than is the reddest rose, 

And dreamy-warm as summer's midmost day. 
Proud, languorous queens of slumberous repose — 

Within their little chalices they keep 

The mystic witchery that brings mild, purple-lidded 
sleep. 

Drowse on, soft flowers of quiet afternoons, — 
The breezes sleep beneath your lulling spell ; 

In dreamy silence all the garden swoons. 
Save where the lily's aromatic bell 

Is murmurous with one low-humming bee. 

As oozy honey-drops are pilfered by that filcher 
wee. 



8 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 

The poets' flower, the pale narcissus, droops 

Like that lorn youth beside the fountain's brink ; 

Aslumber are the phlox's purple troops, 
And every musky rose and spicy pink ; 

Asleep the snowdrop's tiny milken spheres, 

And all the fuchsia's little white and crimson 
chandeliers. 

A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade, 

A calm asylum from the busy world, 
Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade, 

Nor news of 'change and mart each morning whirled 
Round half the globe ; no noise of party feud 
Disturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect 
quietude. 

But summer after summer comes and goes, 
And leaves the garden ever fresh and fair ; 

May brings the tulip, golden June the rose. 

And August winds shake down the mellow pear. 

Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears, — 

But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing 
years. 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 9 

Nay, time has served but to enhance its charms, 
And for a century the folk have blest 

This glowing isle amid their sea of farms. 
On which 'tis sweet the tired eyes to rest. 

O'er all the land its flowery spell is cast, 

A fragrant chain that links the present with the 
misty past. 

And here the daffodils still yield their gold. 
And hollyhocks display their satin wheels. 

The soft harebells as in the days of old 
Ring out their carillon of fairy peals, 

And dandelion-balls nod o'er the grass 

And give from out their fluffy store to all the winds 
that pass. 

The droning bees still sip ambrosial dew 
Within the spiral foxglove's purple tents ; 

Emboldened by the poppy's angry hue, 
Sweet-williams hold their little parliaments, 

Discussing in a silken undertone 

The mullein's insolence for that, from fields plebeian 
blown. 



10 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 

He dares to flaunt his vulgar woollen face 

Among the garden's aristocracy. 
Long nurtured in this rare and cloistered place, 

These gentles hold themselves of high degree, 
Disdaining as a common, low-born weed 
Each wilding bloom that traces not his line from 
ancient seed. 

O fair the larkspur's slender tufts of blue. 
And fair the saffron-kirtled columbine ; 

Fair is the lily from whose luscious dew * 

The elfin-folk distil their honeyed wine. 

The flags are fair, and fair the flowers that ope 

And spread the sweet, old-fashioned redolence of 
heliotrope. 

Fair is the sweet-pea's witching little face. 
And fair the dodder's reels of amber thread ; 

Fair is the slim brocade of dainty lace 
The sweet alyssum weaves along each bed. 

All, all is fair within the garden's bound ; 

No sweeter or more lovely spot, I ween, could e'er 
be found. 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 11 

And here, methinks, might poet-lovers' sighs 
Chime with their ladies' sweetly winsome talk, 

Here Astrophel adore his Stella's eyes, 
And Waller with his Saccharissa walk. 

Or Herrick frame a flowery verse to please 

His silken-bodiced Julia here beneath the cherry- 
trees. 

Ah, Herrick, what a sunny charm is thine, 
Rare laureate-singer of the lovely flowers ! 

Across thy page the rosy garlands twine. 
And dewy April melts in fragrant showers 

Of cloudy blossoms, pink and white and red, 

And May-Day maidens weave a wreath to crown 
their Poet's head. 

O sweet old English gardens, he is gone, — 
Green Devon lanes, ye know his face no more ; 

But long as dew-kissed buds shall wake at dawn 
And daffodils sway by the grassy shore, 

So long will Herrick's floral music sound. 

And Memory's greenest tendrils climb to wreathe 
his name around. 



12 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 

And here on dreamy August afternoons 

I love to pore upon his golden book ; 
And here among the roses that are June's, 

On some green bench within a bowery nook, 
Where rosy petal-drift may strew the page, 
'Tis sweet to read the pensive numbers of old Persia's 
sage, 

Omar Khayyam, the wisest of the wise. 

Ah, now in balmy Naishapiir he sleeps 
These almost thousand years ; and where he lies 

His well-loved rose each spring her petals weeps. 
Of what may be hereafter no man knows, — 
Then let us live to-day, he cried, as lives the lovely 
rose! 

stately roses, yellow, white, and red, 
As Omar loved you, so we love to-day. 

Some roses with the vanished years have sped. 
And some our mothers' mothers laid away 

Among their bridal-gowns' soft silken folds. 

Where each pale petal for their sons a precious 
memory holds. 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 13 

And some we find among the yellowed leaves 
Of slender albums, once the parlor's pride, 

Where faint-traced ivy pattern interweaves 
The mottoes over which the maiden sighed. 

O faded roses, did they match your red, 

Those fair young cheeks whose color long ago with 
yours has fled ? 

And still doth balmy June bring many a rose 
To crown the happy garden's loveliness. 

Against the house the old sweet-brier grows 
And cheers its sadness with soft, warm caress, 

As fragrant yet as in the far-off* time 

When that old mansion's fairest mistress taught its 
shoots to climb. 

Enveloped in their tufted velvet coats 
The sweet, poetical moss-roses dream ; 

And petal after petal softly floats 

From where the tea-rose spreads her fawn 
and cream, — 

Like fairy barks on tides of air they flow. 

And rove adown the garden silently as drifting snow. 



14 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 

Near that old rose named from its hundred leaves 
The lovely bridal-roses sweetly blush ; 

The climbing rose across the trellis weaves 
A canopy suffused with tender flush ; 

The damask roses swing on tiny trees, 

And here the seven-sisters glow like floral 
pleiades. 

Nor lacks there music in this lovely close, — 

The music of the oriole's soft lute, 
The gush of cadenced melody that flows 

And echoes from the blue-bird's fairy flute ; 
And here beside the fountain's mossy brink 
There rings the lilting laughter of the happy 
bobolink. 

From forth the branches of the lilac tree 

The robin-redbreast's bubbling ditties well ; — 

O cherished will his name forever be. 
For he it was, as olden stories tell, 

That eased the crown upon the Saviour's head 

And with the bleeding thorn stained his own breast 
forever red ! 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 15 

And now and then the shy wood-robin comes 
And from the pear tree pours his liquid notes ; 

The black-bird plays among the purple plums ; 
The humming-bird about the garden floats 

And like a bright elf wings his darting flight, 

A shimmering, evanescent point of green and golden 
light. 

Down in the lily's creamy cup he dips, 

Then whirrs to where the honeysuckle showers 

Its luscious essences ; but most he sips 

From out the deep, red-throated trumpet-flowers; — 

Sweet booty there awaits the spoiler's stealth 

As horn by horn he rifles all their summer-hoarded 
wealth. 

The ragged-robins gaze with pleased surprise 
Upon the jewelled beauty flashing there ; 

The pansies open wide their velvet eyes 
And ponder sweetly on that rover fair, 

Until the purple Canterbury-bell 

Chimes out its little curfew tolling them to slumber's 
spell. 



16 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 

O sweet is every rural sight and sound 

That greets us in the pleasant countryside, — 

The fields of crimson clover walled around 
With greenest hedges, fertile valleys wide, 

Long, wooded slopes, and many a grassy hill, 

And peaceful, silver rivers flowing on from mill to 
mill. 

Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rain 

In violet-days, when spring opes her green 
heart ; 

And sweet the apple trees along the lane 
Whose lovely blossoms all too soon depart ; 

And sweet the brimming dew that overfills 

The golden chalices of all the trembling dafibdils. 

Sweet is the fragrance of the fruity vine, 

And sweet the rustle of the broad-leaved corn ; 

And sweet the lowing of the great-eyed kine 
Among the milking-sheds at early morn 

As they await the farmer's red-cheeked girls. 

While still the spiders' filmy webs are bright with 
dewy pearls. 



THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN. 17 

And sweet the locust's drowsy monotone, 

And sweet the ring-dove's brooding plaint at eve ; 

And sweet from far-off meadows newly mown 
The breath of hay that tempts the bees to leave 

The corridors of hollyhocks ; and sweet 

To see the sun-browned reapers in among the ripened 
wheat. 

But sweeter far in this old garden close 
To loiter 'mid the lovely, old-time flowers, 

To breathe the scent of lavender and rose. 
And with old poets pass the peaceful hours. 

Old gardens and old poets, — happy he 

Whose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet 
company ! 

And now is gone the dreamy afternoon, — 
The sun has sunk below yon western height ; 

The pallid silver of the harvest-moon 

Floods all the garden with its soft, weird light. 

The flowers long since have told their dewy beads, 

And naught is heard except the frogs' small choir in 
distant meads. 



SONNETS. 



THE GOLDEN DAYS OF OLD ROMANCE. 

T LOVE the golden days of old romance 

That live for us in legend and in story, — 
The Age of Gold when man was in his glory, 
The feats of fairies and their moonlight dance, 
The stately jousts with noble knights a-prance. 
And lordly loves in castles gray and hoary. 
And so I turn to some old allegory 
Of merry England, or of sunny France, 
Or dreamy Spain ; and all entranced I sit 
With mystic Arthur at the Table Round, 
Or visit that dark vale where Roland wound 
His last sad horn, or thread the purple light 
Of Spenser's woods, or laugh with him who writ 
Of old La Mancha's crazed, fantastic knight. 



22 SONNETS. 



TO BION. 
On his 'Lament for Adonis.' 

nPHE woe of widowed Cypris and the groan 
Of that sweet lady drooping o'er the bed 
Where lay the form of lovely Adon dead, 

Whose too, too early death she did bemoan 

For that it left her loverless and lone 

Amid the tears the Loves lamenting shed, — 
These dolors have in later poets bred 

The melancholy music of thy moan, 

O gentle Bion. On this languid string 

Young Moschus, mourning thine own parting, 

played ; 
Sweet Spenser, stroking its sad minors, made 

His moan for Sidney, as for hapless King 

Great Milton. Last the noble Laureate laid 

The ' In Memoriam ' as his offering. 



SONNETS. 23 



SPENSER. 

T WENT with Spenser into Faerie Land, 

And passed through purple forests deep and wide ; 

Down dim, enchanted glades where I espied 
The lovely hamadryads' sylvan band. 
Along the marge of many a golden strand 

We swept in cedarn shallops down the tide ; 

And ever as we fared he magnified 
The name of Gloriana high and grand. 
O mighty Dreamer ! great Idealist ! 

The fields of Phantasie are thy demesne. 

Sweet is the marriage-music thou dost play, 
And sweet to hear thee pipe the shepherd's lay ; 
But sweeter far in summertide to list 

To the stately measures of thy ' Faerie Queene.' 



24 SONNETS. 



THE GARDEN OF THE HESPERIDES. 
On a Picture by Sir Frederic Leighton. 

T?AR on the western borders of the world, 
Hard by the utmost pale of sunset seas, 
Where never mortal men have felt the breeze 

Of those dim regions murmur round the furled 

And idle sails of vessels tempest- whirled 

Far from their course, — dwell the Hesperides, 
Forever languorous laid in poppied ease 

On beds of amaranth with dews empearled. 

Sweet are their days ; no other care have they 

Than watching o'er that fruitage fair and golden 

Which Earth to Hera at her wedding gave. 
A Paradise is theirs, and poets olden 

Have sung how mortals ever yet essay 

To reach those Isles of Bliss beyond the wave. 



SONNETS. 25 



IN POET-LAND. 

r\ WHO will leave sad care and go with me 
To that enchanted land where Poets dwell — 
A glorious brotherhood — in some far dell 
Among the meads of golden Arcady ! 
There blind old Homer, lord of poesy, 
And Virgil, his far son, hear Dante tell 
Of that dread pilgrimage through Heaven 
and Hell. 
There Chaucer joys in sunny minstrelsy, 
And gentle Spenser floats in silver streams 
Of phantasie ; and ah, what raptures run 
From Shakespeare's lute that shames the 
nightingale ! 
There Milton meditates celestial themes, 

Keats paints his purple page, and Tennyson 
Is singing Arthur and the Holy Grail. 



26 SONNETS. 



VENICE. 

'pHEY told me thou wert fallen to decay, 

Old Venice, and hadst lost thine ancient pride 
But as upon thy silent streets I glide 
And mark the stately piles that line the way, 
And all thy spires and domes in dim array 
Soft mirrored in the Adriatic's tide, — 
I cannot think thy glory all has died. 
Nay ! in the calmness of thy later day 
Thou hast the mellow bloom of ripened age ; 
Gone is thy youth, yet thou art still as fair 
As any dove that haunts thy holy square. 
Like Ariadne's was thy heritage, — 

A lonely queen beside the silver sea, 
Sad but forever beautiful to be ! 



SONNETS. 27 



THE MAKERS OF FLORENCE. 

T TROD the streets of that fair Tuscan town 
And saw the men that Florence called her own ; 
In pictured effigy and sculptured stone 
Repose those peerless sons of old renown. 
Far-thoughted Galileo there looks down, 
And Michael Angelo, severe and lone, 
With that same sleeping strength that he 
has shown 
In his own ' Moses.' And I marked the frown 
Of him who traversed Hell and Paradise ; 

And, near the stone whereon great Dante dreamed, 
Calm Brunelleschi's upward-gazing eyes 

Fixt rapturous upon his glorious dome ; 
And last, San Marco's Monk whose lightnings 
beamed 
Like some pure star in that dark night of Rome ! 



28 SONNETS. 



THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY. 

^HE cypress throws across the yellowed stone 
Its darkness gathered from the countless years ; 
The sad, wan flowers drop their pallid tears, 

And by the moon the night-owl makes her moan. 

And yet no narrow tomb claims him its own. 
For where the riotous sea-wind uprears 
The foaming billows 'neath the starry spheres, 

Forever are his deathless ashes blown. 

O Heart of Hearts, bright Ariel of the dawn ! 
The most ethereal of poetic race ! 
Like young Actaeon saw he face to face 

Divinest Beauty with her veil withdrawn ; — 

Was it for this he passed from earth so young 
And left so soon that glorious lyre unstrung ? 



SONNETS. 29 



THE GRAVE OF KEATS. 

TTERE lies young Adonais, stricken low 
All in the dewy morning of his days. 
Upon his sleep the soft moon bends her gaze, 

As on the Latmian shepherd's long ago, 

And for her own loved Poet pours her woe. 

Here no dark cypress-tree its shadow sways, 
But through the grass the lowly ivy strays 

And tender violets in sorrow grow. 

Above his earthly bed we stand and weep. 
And yet we know his spirit never dies, 
Sweeter than all the songs he ever sung. 

Soothed in the languor of eternal sleep. 
Like his beloved Endymion he lies. 
Forever beautiful, forever young ! 



30 SONNETS. 



SWITZERLAND. 

T SAW thine orchards as they lay aglow 
With April's bloom ; I saw thy lower vales 
Roll their green waves high as the fields where fails 

All verdure, 'neath the icy winds that blow 

Across those wastes of everlasting snow. 
I stood among thy lofty forest dales 
And saw the peaceful lake, the mirrored sails, 

And all the little universe below. 

Emblem of Freedom, Switzerland, art thou ! 
Thy air, thy soil, thy mountains, all are free ; 

Wild-free thy streams that from the high cliff's brow 
Leap joyous down to meet the southern sea. 

Before thy Tell's beloved name we bow 
And hail thee perfect type of Liberty ! 



SONNETS. 31 



OXFORD. 

TX7H0 loveth not the hundred-towered town 

By which the Isis' lingering waters flow, — 
Those mediseval streets where silent go 
The pensive scholars clad in cap and gown ; 
Green gardens whose deep quietude can drown 
All worldly thought ; the carven fanes where blow 
The rapturous organs, and whose dim panes glow 
With blazoned saints and kings of far renown ! 
A city of enchantment thou dost seem, 

Rare Oxford, and thy sweet and tranquil charm 
Comes like the soothing of an old-world dream 
To cheer our restless days, and to disarm 

The blinded ones who scorn fair Learning's fame 
And rudely seek to mar her ancient name. 



32 SONNETS. 



IRELAND. 

'PHY memory, green Erin, haunteth me 
Since first I stood upon Killarney's shore. 
Or saw from Limerick's spires the Shannon pour 
Its turbid waters towards the western sea ; 
And in my fancy's hour I turn to thee 
To muse upon thy never-failing store 
Of ancient myth and legendary lore, 
Enshrining every glade and rock and tree. 
Across thy lonely bogs the Banshee moans, 
At eve the fiddle cries in mystic tones. 

And elfin-folk dance on the moon-lit green. 
Thy scenes I love, but chiefly Mulla's del], 
Where Spenser, rapt in rich enchantment's spell, 
Saw his great vision of the ' Faerie Queene.' 



SONNETS. 33 



AN OLD-TIME GARDEN. 

A FOR a garden of the olden time 

Where none but long-familiar flowers grow, 
Where pebbled paths go winding to and fro, 
And honeysuckles over arbors climb ! 
There would I have sweet mignonette and thyme, 

With hollyhocks and dahlias all arow. 

The hyacinth inscribed with words of woe, 
The small blue-bell that beats a dainty chime 
For elfin ears ; and daffodillies, too. 

The sleepy poppy, and the marigold. 

The peony with petals manifold, 
And ragged-robins, pink and white and blue. 

All these and more I'd have, and back of all 

A thousand roses on a mossy wall ! 



34 SONNETS. 



ON A PORTRAIT OF LUCRETIA MOTT. 

T LOOK on that serene and saintly face 

And mark the placid beauty pictured there ; 

In that calm countenance no weight of care 
Nor darkness of distress could e'er efface 
Or overshade the sweet, old-fashioned grace. 

She seems an angel sent to do and dare, 

A gentle martyr fortified to bear 
Truth's sorest trials. Yet here is no sad trace 
Of her life's battles ; from those tranquil eyes 

There beams a perfect peace. O noble soul. 
What do not Truth and Freedom owe to thee ! 
Thy name we love, thy memory we prize ; 

And round thy brow we see the aureole 

That crowned thy life of sweet philanthropy. 



SONNETS. 35 



IN MEMORIAM. 

A— M— 

A LAS, that fairest flowers must fall at last ! 
Alas, that earth should lose such men as he. 
And we be reft of one whose courtesy 
Made glad the very children as he passed ! 
In finest mould his gentle soul was cast, 
Learning and wisdom his in large degree ; 
His days were spent in calm serenity 
Communing with the great ones of the Past. 
Farewell, rare friend ! All empty is thy place, 
And e'er shall be ; yet we who stay behind 
Sweet comfort take as reverently we scan 
Thy blameless life, that fine and courtly grace 
Of thine, which, wedded to a noble mind, 

Made rich * the grand old name of gentleman.' 



36 SONNETS. 



'THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST 
TEMPLES.' 

•T^HE groves were God's first temples, and to-day 
Should man yet worship there, were he unwise? 
The gray old woods whose mighty trunks uprise 
In silent majesty, where wildings sway 
Their fragrant bells and scent the air with May ; 
The fields whose flowery beauty open lies 
Beneath the glory of the summer skies : — 
These have been nature's simple shrines for aye. 
These are the temples of the living God. 
And so for dome the over-arching blue 
I'll take, for floor the soft and verdant sod, 
For aisles the trees in stately avenue, — 

While myriad choirs of birds in hymns of bliss 
Fill all the heart of this vast edifice. 



SONNETS. 37 



SPRING. 

'\T7ELC0ME, thrice welcome to thee, lovely Spring, 
Sweet tirae of mellow rains and gentle dew ! 
Like Flora comest thou, with retinue 
Of every tender plant and leafy thing. 
At thy approach the world is wakening, 

And tree and shrub and grass their life renew ; 
The meads are starred with flowers of fairest hue, 
And orchards wide their blossomed fragrance fling. 
Emblem of budding innocence thou art, 

Sweet, gentle, virgin season of the year ; 
A note of love awakes in every heart 

When earth enrobes herself in thy rich green. 
Then come, sweet youths and maidens all, 
come near, 
And weave a flowery crown for this fair Queen ! 



38 SONNETS. 



SUMMER. 

QWEET, languorous days of perfect calm 
and peace, 
And drowsy somnolence, we love you well : 
Fields, woods, and gardens own your lulling spell, 

And nature from lier labors finds surcease. 

On high slow drifts the soft cloud's billowy fleece, 
Within the lily's golden-dusty cell 
The bees are murmuring, the ring-doves tell 

Their evening sorrow, and the farm's increase 

Wafts from the bursting mows its odors sweet. 
The sheep -bells tinkle faintly on the hills, 

And where the vales are swooning in the heat 
Upon his droning lute the locust shrills. 
O balmy Summer, dear thy soft repose 
As is the fragrance of thy sweetest rose ! 



SONNETS. 39 



AUTUMN. 

^T^IS golden Autumn, and a mellow haze 
Envelops all the dreamy countryside ; 
Soon o'er the world will sweep a crimson tide 
Of fairy fire and set the woods ablaze 
With sullen splendor. By the dusty ways 
The golden-rod is drooping, and beside 
The wall the grapes are swelling in their pride 
Of purple lusciousness. The drowsy days 
Are almost silent, save where orchard trees 
Are dropping down their ripe and ruddy store. 
Or where the farmer beats the threshing-floor 
With rhythmic flail. Sweet nature's symbols these, 
That mark the evening of the dying year 
And prelude the approach of winter drear. 



40 SONNETS. 



WINTER. 

"VrOW earth within the arms of Winter old 
Is softly slumbering, and deep and warm 
The mantle lies that shields her tender form 
From bitter blast and storm and numbing cold. 
Upland and meadow, sombre wood and wold, 
All silent lie beneath the frost-king's charm ; 
O'er every frozen stream and sleeping farm 
The mage's spell is laid. Like ruddy gold 
Low swings the sun in waning afternoon 
Down towards the world's blue edge ; then comes 
the moon 
And silvers all the land with fairy light. 

Within, the hearth glows warm, and 'tis the time 
Of fireside joys, when gentle hearts are bright 
And beat as sweetly as the sleigh-bells' chime. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



A MAY-DAY INVITATION. 

r^OME, let us leave the busy town 

And to the country hasten down, — 
We'll go this very day ! 
The hills and dales are deckt with green, 
On every bush the buds are seen, 
And all the countryside is sweet with May. 

What pleasure can the city yield 
When every grove and verdant field 

Is drest in spring array ? 
Or who would wish a dusty street 
When he can rest his weary feet 
In meadows odorous with flowery May ? 



44 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

The robin plumes his ruddy breast, 
And to his mate upon the nest 

He sings a roundelay ; 
And all the golden afternoon 
The blue-bird pipes his happy tune 
And flits among the fragrant fields of May. 



The violets empearled with dew 
Reflect the heaven's perfect blue, 

The tulips softly sway ; 
The primrose haunts the woodland hills, 
And golden-hearted dafibdils 
Dance gaily in the balmy winds of May. 



The orchards are a lovely sight, — 

The trees embowered in pink and white, 

Each like a great bouquet ; 
And wide they spread their spicy scent 
Till all the air is redolent, 
And O, we wish that it were always May ! 



A MAY-DAY INVITATION. 45 

The city bindeth men with care, — 
Engaged in this and that affair 
They wear their lives away ; 
But in the country's leafy lanes 
Simplicity securely reigns, — 
Care sorteth not with happy-hearted May. 

Then leave the desk and come along, 
We'll go and hear the robin's song, — 

Let's haste without delay ! 
We'll drink a draught of morning dew, 
And wandering the meadows through 
We'll see the country girls bring in the May. 



46 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY. 

T\EAR Friend, we come to yield anew 
The reverence we owe thy name, 
And celebrate with fresh acclaim 

Our Quaker Poet, strong and true. 

For though there needs no day of praise 
For him who held with all his sect 
That love and honor and respect 

Belong alike to all our days, — 

Yet do we love in special wise 
To celebrate his natal day, 
And, pausing in our onward way. 

Look back awhile with reverent eyes 

Upon his long and noble life, 
A life as blameless and serene 
As any that the world has seen, — 

Yet one that had its doubts and strife, 



WHITTIER'S BIRTHDAY. 47 

Its martyrdom to sternest duty 

In days when men were weak with fear, 
A life that grew from year to year 

Nearer the type of godly beauty. 



Lowly his birth, his fortunes low, 
His kin a plain and simple folk ; 
The weight of toil and labor's yoke 

He learned from early years to know. 

And yet there blossomed in his heart 
A passion native-born and strong, 
That made him love the poet's song 

And practise it with homely art. 

A * barefoot boy ' he oft would climb, 
In lonely mood, his favorite height, 
And, gazing o'er the hills, recite 

The songs of Burns, or set to rhyme 

His thoughts of fields and woods below. 
The grassy meads and joyous brooks. 
The flowery banks and sylvan nooks, 

And the blue river's peaceful flow. 



48 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

And as lie strengthened day by day 
His touch upon the lyric string, 
The world was glad to hear him sing, 

This nightingale in Quaker gray. 

But when there swept across the land 
The ebb and flow of Freedom's tide, 
The tuneful harp was laid aside. 

And Whittier stood hand in hand 

With those great souls so true and brave. 
Who led the van of that crusade 
Which cleansed the sullied land and made 

A freeman of the shackled slave. 

'Twas then he shone upon our sight 
A second Milton among men. 
The poet scourging with his pen 

The enemies of truth and right. 

And still like that great Puritan — 
When peace succeeded iron war, 
He donned his singing robes once more. 

And, newly heartened by the span 



WHITHER S BIRTHDAY. 49 

Of those dark years, he sang with tone 

So full of hope, so large and free, 

It made the mourning nation see 
That o'er the hills the sun still shone. 

He sang in songs of many keys, — 
He sang of home and sweet content. 
And through his verses came the scent 

Of flowers, and sounds of birds and bees. 

He sang of duty, faith, and love. 

He sang the brotherhood of man, 

And ever shorter made the span 
That parts us from the life above. 

The life above, — ah, it is thine. 

Dear Heart, for, ever through the years, 
Through all thy human hopes and fears, 

There gleamed a spirit half divine, — 

A spirit that in all its moods 

Of joy and grief obeyed the Light, 
That read the laws of God aright 

And followed the Beatitudes. 



50 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

His creed, — and who shall name his creed ?- 
If so we may those feelings call 
That were too wide for ritual, 

That asked no priest to intercede 

With service born of man's device, — 
But rested in the faith content 
That God is good, that reverent 

And upright living is the price 

Of joy beyond. So while he stood 
Within the faith his fathers held, 
His great and loving heart out-welled 

Towards all the human brotherhood. 

O gentle Friend, serene and strong, 
O Poet, sweet and tender-true, 
Thy work was such as martyrs do, 

Thy life one grand and noble song ! 



ENGLAND. 51 



ENGLAND. 

( To a and M. ) 

HTHE day is fair, the breeze is free, 

The ship has crossed the bar, 
And you are fleeting o'er the sea 
To lands that lie afar. 

My fancy to old England turns, 

As o'er the deep you fare, 
And memory the picture brings 

Of all that waits you there. 

I see the velvet meadows walled 
With hedges deep and green. 

The lordly forest trees that mark 
The nobleman's demesne ; 

The gray old church and Norman tower 

Embosomed deep in trees, 
The fields aflame with poppy-heads 

Where flit the drowsy bees ; 



52 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

The stately minster's Gothic pile, 

The noble heritage 
Bequeathed us by the living faith 

That stirred the Middle Age ; 

Old gardens and old village inns, 
With all their old-time charm. 

And ancient coaching-roads that wind 
By ancient garth and farm. 

By Cam's and Isis' banks I see 

The hoary college towns, 
Where cloistered scholars pace the walks 

In mediaeval gowns ; 

Where silver-chiming vesper bells 
Peal from a score of spires. 

And glorious anthems soar on high 
From snowy- vested choirs ; 

Where old libraries, oaken-ceiled 
And dim with Learning's haze. 

Entice the traveller to stay 
And dream away his days. — 



ENGLAND. 53 



And over all that storied land, 
In every burgh and shire, 

Are spots that poets' lines or lives 
Have made forever dear. 



Westmoreland's peaks majestic are, 
And fair each lake and fell, 

But doubled is their beauty now 
That Wordsworth here did dwell. 

His great heart was in harmony 
With nature's graver moods, 

And in his song he showed the soul 
Of these sweet solitudes. 

And now he sleeps in Grasmere vale. 

The Rotha's bank beside, 
But still his calm, sweet voice is heard 

As is the Rotha's tide. 



The level moors of Lincolnshire 

Recall a later name, 
The peerless laureate who sang 

Of Celtic Arthur's fame. 



54 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Across these downs he wandered oft, 

By beck and lonely dune ; 
He loved their sombre beauty well, — 

They set his heart atune. 

And ever in the after years 

These boyhood scenes were dear, 

And through his every song there floats 
Some breath of Lincolnshire. 



In ancient Stratford's holy fane 
Immortal Shakespeare sleeps. 

And placid Avon by his grave 
Her silent vigil keeps. 

His native county's name will aye 
With his own name entwine ; 

His fancy drew no fairer scenes. 
Green Warwickshire, than thine. 

Thy peaceful fields and silver streams 

Upon his page we find ; 
Thy woods are like the Arcady 

Where dwelt sweet Rosalind. 



ENGLAND. 55 

As in the rural lanes you roam 

Of olden Devonshire, 
The echoes of the golden harp 

Of Herrick you may hear. 

Beside these brooks he loved to pipe 

In summer's dreamy hours, 
And watch the hock-cart coming in 

Engarlanded with flowers. 

Along these leafy lanes he trudged 

To wassail and to wake, 
Or where the rosy country girls 

Swung through the barley-break. 

Old Devon's flowery meads and dales 

Can never withered be, 
For Herrick shed on them the dew 

Of immortality ! 



And so o'er all that ancient land. 
From Cornwall to the Tweed, 

Her poets' names are ever green. 
And to this day, indeed. 



56 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

Along the Canterbury road 
With Chaucer we may ride, 

Or pace the placid Ouse's bank 
By pensive Cowper's side ; 

In stately Penshurst's summer woods 
With courtly Sidney stray, 

Or muse beneath the church-yard elms 
With meditative Gray. 



Fair are the fields of sunny France, 

And fair is Italy, 
But dearest is the love we bear. 

Sweet English land, to thee. 

Thy Saxon blood we share, and all 

Thine ancient memories ; 
To thee with filial love we look 

Across the orient seas. 

We love thine old ancestral worth 
Throughout the ages long, 

But most we love thee for thy wealth 
Of glorious English Song ! 



A DEE AM OF OTHER DAYS. 57 



A DREAM OF OTHER DAYS. 

T FELL asleep upon a summer's day 

As on a shady woodland bank I lay, 
And as I slept there came to me a dream 
Of days of eldest time. The land did seem 
Lovely and happy with a strange delight ; 
All round were flowery fields and regions bright, 
Enchanted groves, and brooks that danced in glee 
Down ferny slopes to meet the silver sea 
Far in the west. There spiced zephyrs played. 
And birds of wondrous plumage charmed the ear in 
every glade. 



58 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

And in that lovely land there dwelt a race 
Of godlike youths and maidens ; every face 
Was glowing with a comeliness divine. 
There moved the beings of Olympic line, 
Tall gods and goddesses, among the bloom 
Of dim Hesperian trees that spread a gloom 
Of purple shade around ; great heroes, too, 
And all the sylvan folk that Hellas knew, — 
Dryads and fauns and nymphs in beauty's glory, 
And every fair familiar form that lives in ancient 
story. 



Divine Apollo sat within the shade 

Among his flocks, and on twin pipes he played 

Such strains as held his fleecy audience rapt ; 

The trees bent low to hear, the fountain lapt 

Its marge in joy, and all the air was thrilled. 

And then I heard the distance faintly filled 

By Orpheus, as in echo to his sire, 

Where, to the weeping of his plaintive lyre, 

He strayed slow-footed down the grassy lea, 

And ever sadly moaned, 'Eurydice ! Eurydice ! ' 



A DJREAM OF OTHER DAYS. 59 

Across the silver tides of that far sea 
Young Jason, dauntless prince of Thessaly, 
Fared in his questing of the Golden Fleece. 
With him were ranged the chiefs of early Greece, 
Castor and Pollux, mighty Heracles, 
Theseus, and Meleager, and with these 
Full many another ; while the Argo broke 
The virgin billows with her sacred oak, 
The comrades smiting with the ashen oar 
Those wondering seas whose waters ne'er had seen a 
ship before. 

Beside a woodland fountain's turfy shore 
I saw a youth who, ever bending o'er 
The watery mirror, seemed with his sweet grace 
To lend a two-fold beauty to the place. 
Ah, foolish boy, will never maiden prize 
A look of love from those soft violet eyes ? 
In Hellas there are girlish charms as fair 
As is the picture which thou watchest there ; — 
Shall it be said Narcissus took no bride. 
But ever loved an imaged shape and in his folly 
died? 



60 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

And there the great Odysseus did I see, 
Kecounting to the fair Penelope 
And to the Grecian heroes gathered round, 
The tales of all the wonders he had found 
In that far voyage of his, — the Lotus-land, 
Of Circe's spells which men may not withstand 
Save by advice divine, the Sun-god's isle. 
And of the Sirens with their luring wile ; — 
And long and loud those goodly heroes laughed 
To hear how Polyphemus was outdone by human 
craft ! 

Of Scylla and Charybdis all the tale 
He told to them, and every face was pale 
O'er that untoward hap ; and then he turned 
And pictured all he saw when he sojourned 
In that Phseacian realm, where summer knows 
Not any ceasing and where ceaseless grows 
The peerless fruitage by the palace wall. 
And when Odysseus had related all, — 
' O come, my comrades, come ! ' I heard him cry, 
'We'll sail unto the Earthly Paradise ere yet we 
die!' 



A DREAM OF OTHER DAYS. 61 

Two beings there whose beauty none may tell 
Went hand in hand among the asphodel, 
Cupid and Psyche, an immortal pair ; 
Of godlike presence he, and she as fair 
As Cytherea's self. O gentle bride, 

patient pilgrim-soul so sorely tried ! — 
Hasting with tireless step through regions dread, 
O'er mountains wild and down among the dead, — 
Till Love divine to crown thy Faith was given, 
And through thy earthly trials thou found'st eternal 

joy in heaven ! 

When night came down and spread its perfect peace 
Upon that dreamland picture of old Greece, 

1 cast my eyes along a mountain side, 
And there within a sacred cave espied 

A beauteous shepherd youth who lay aswoon 
In slumberous repose. Low swung the moon, 
And Luna leaning from her silver car 
Just touched his drowsy lips, then sped afar 
Across the starry heights, — while from that kiss 
Endymion sleeping smiled as conscious of immortal 
bliss. 



62 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 

When now at length the soft moon veiled her light 
Behind the walls of Latmos' snowy height, 
And rosy Dawn proclaimed another day, — 
My lovely vision faded all away, 
Goddess and nymph and hero ; — but to me 
Was left the fragrance of their memory, 
A dower sweet ; yet with it sad regret 
At thought that human kind may never yet 
Again, as in the glorious days of old. 
Commune with the divinities of that fair Age of 
Gold. 



SWEET SPRING IS HERE. 63 



SWEET SPRING IS HERE. 

QWEET spring is here, and o'er the earth 

A verdant garb is seen, 
As drenched in balm of April rains 

The fields put on their green. 
The apple-orchards, all transformed, 

Are wrapt in clouds of bloom, 
And here the robin loves to swing and breathe 
the rare perfume. 

The dandelions by thousands gleam, 

And every little one 
Seems, with its round of golden rays, 

Like to a fairy sun. 
The tulips burn with crimson flame 

Along each narrow bed, — 
Like dainty elfin lamps they glow, and light 
the lawn with red. 



64 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



The violets uplift their heads 

And star the grass with blue, 
The daffodils hold up their cups 

To catch the morning dew. 
The small May-apple spreads abroad 

Its leafy little tent, 
And with the jasmine's balmy breath the vale 
is redolent. 



Beside the sylvan banks unseen 

Shy Quaker-ladies blow, 
And on the hill the blood-root spreads 

Her drifts of vernal snow. 
From oak-tree roots the primrose runs, 

And paints with paly gold 
The carpeting of withered leaves that clothes 
the sombre wold. 



SWEET SPRING IS HEBE. 65 



Where is the dear hepatica 

With its sweet baby face ? 
There, in the shadow of the w^ood, 

It peeps with modest grace. 
And near it is that child of spring, 

The pale anemone, 
While in the mossy dell the fern uprears her 
tiny tree. 



Down by the pond 'tis like a camp 

Of mimic state, I ween, 
For all the tender willows stand 

Pavilioned o'er with green. 
Wild honeysuckles pour their scent 

Upon the w^oodland breeze, 
And tempt from far-off pasture fields the 
golden-belted bees. 



66 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



The crocuses and hyacinths, 

Sweet infants of the year, 
Show dainty faces dimmed at dawn 

With many a dewy tear. 
The hedges of japonica 

Have donned their spring attire, 
And border all the grassy lawn with walls of 
flowery fire. 



The orchards, lanes, and meadows all 

Are odorous with May, 
And every happy little bird 

Is carolling his lay. 
The hills and valleys, woods and streams, 

Are smiling far and near. 
And all the world is filled with joy because 
sweet Spring is here. 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 



TO 

DOROTHY 

SYDNEY 

MARTHA 

MARGARET 

ISABELLA 

DOROTHEA 

BEATRICE 

WALDO 

THOSE LITTLE LOVERS OF THE 

FLOWERS AND FAIRIES 

THESE VERSICLES I GIVE 



AURORA. 

TTTHEN the rising sun is tinting 

All the sky with opal hue, 
Comes the sweet Aurora tripping 
For her morning draught of dew. 

There she quaffs the rose's nectar. 
And the morning-glory's wine ; 

Hyacinthine honey sips she. 
Vowing it a drink divine. 

And the lovely flowers regretful 

As they see her go away, 
Sighing forth their gentle sorrow, 

Breathe a fragrance all the day. 



70 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 



CROCUSES. 

Tj^RAIL children of the early spring, 

We love you well ; 

Ye seem to tell 
By your rathe blossoming, 
That time of leaf and bud and fruit is coming. 

First-born are ye of all the flowers, 

Ye gentle ones ; 

Sweet April runs 
Her course of dewy hours 
Heart-happy that she saw your early coming. 

Close on late snows your blooms are seen, 

Pale vernal things ; 

The robin sings, 
The grass grows rainy-green. 
And all the world awakens at your coming. 



FLO WEBS AND FAIRIES. 71 

When golden June scents all the air 

With her sweet rose, 

And lovely glows 
Each bed, we'll still declare 
'Tis not more dear than was your springtime 

coming ! 



WHITE VIOLETS. 



A 



BAND of sweet blue violets, 
All on an April day, 
Went down into a sylvan dell 

At hide-and-seek to play. 
But while they played a bat flew by, 

Which gave them such a fright 
That every little countenance 
Was changed to milky white ! 



72 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 



THE FAIRY SKY. 

A BOVE a glassy woodland pool 

Queen Mab her body bent, 
And saw her face, a lovely moon, 

In that small firmament. 
And for the stars the spangles all 

That on her robe did shine 
Made such a twinkling there, I vow 
Was ne'er a sky so fine ! 



THE SNOW-DROP. 

T^HE snow-drop, pearly white of hue, 

Each morning sheds a fragrant dew, 
Which little goblins come and get 
And use to bait their beetle-net. 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 73 



IN BLOSSOM-TIME. 

TN blossom-time the orchard trees, 
Aroused by April's balmy breeze, 

In loveliness are glowing ; 
All blushing with their rosy bloom, 
They lade the winds with faint perfume 

That over them are blowing. 



The world is all a-swim in seas 
Of pearly foam where late the trees 

In sombreness were growing. 
Like banks of tinted clouds are they 
Which summer winds at close of day 

Across the skies are strowing. 



74 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 

I watched them in their dawning fair, 
I watch them as they fill the air 

With petals earthward snowing ; 
And as I see their branches thinned 
And stript by every passing wind, 

I mourn at that quick going. 



THE ROSE'S REPLY. 

T SAID unto a lovely rose 

That in my garden grew, 
* When chilly Autumn comes around, 
Sweet rose, what will you do ? ' 

Said she, ' When Autumn breezes blow 

I'll rain my petals down. 
And on them little brookside elves 

Will sail to Fairy Town.' 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 75 



THE FAIEIES' SUPPER. 

TX7HEN fairj-folk sit down to sup 

Each has for plate a buttercup, 
And for mug a tiny cell 
Of the delicate blue-bell 
Filled with dew-drops of the rose 
Gathered when her buds unclose. 
I ween it is a witching sight 
To see each bonny little sprite 
Seated at the mushroom board 
All with toothsome dainties stored. 
Here are plates of cricket meat 
Dressed with sauce of clover sweet, 
Appetizing little pies 
Made of wings of bottle-flies ; 
Omelet of emmet's eggs, 
Fricassee of beetles' legs, 



76 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 

Liver of the bumble-bee, 

And ragout of chickadee ; 

Barbecue of lady-birds, 

And nut-shells filled with creamy curds 

Pilfered while the dairy -girl 

Gossiped with the farmer's churl. 

The chalice of a daffodil 
Is their great bowl, which they fill 
With syrup of the wild strawberries 
Much esteemed by all the fairies. 
Here are gnats' wings, and by these 
Many little loaves of cheese 
Made of daisies' golden eyes, — 
Tadpole tongues of smallest size, 
Tiny seed-cakes with their tops 
Gemmed with honeysuckle drops, 
Salad made of violets blue 
Moistened o'er with April dew. 
And the roe of small brook-fishes 
Served on pink rose-petal dishes, 
Strips of candied gad-fly's wing ; — 
And many another dainty thing 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 77 

Only to be named aright 

By those who have the fairy sight. 

While these wee folk feast away 
They are cheered by music gay, 
For behind the soft sweet-fern, 
Where the fire-fly lanterns burn, 
Is the band of players hid. 
There the green -robed katydid 
Tweedles on his violin 
Elfin-music high and thin ; 
The cricket blows his dulcet flute, 
And the locust on his lute 
Strums a droning monotone. 
And silvery melodies are blown 
On the little lily horns ; 
While on shells of small acorns 
Stretched across with skin of plum 
Little drummers briskly drum, 
Pigwiggin deftly keeping time 
With his little hare-bell chime. 
All the fairies shout with glee 
At the dainty minstrelsy ; 



78 FLO WEES AND FAIRIES. 

And the supper being ended, 
Each sylph by an elf attended, 
They pace among the mossy glades 
Listening to the serenades 
And sonatas soft and low. 
Till the stars begin to glow, — 
When at Oberon's command 
The tiny company disband, 
To ply the tasks with merry cheer 
Set them by their sovereign dear. 



THE MUSHROOM TENT. 

TXT HEN showers make the woods all wet 

The tiny wood-folk run and get 
Beneath a mushroom's sheltering eaves, 
And there on beds of violet leaves 
They sleep secure till cease of rain 
Doth send them out to play again. 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 79 



CHERRY BLOSSOMS. 

T RAMBLED in an orchard old 

Where gentle winds were blowing, 
And saw the blooming cherry trees 

Their petals downward snowing. 
* O stay, sweet blossoms ! ' cried I then, 

' Withhold your wasteful showers ; — 
Why will ye scatter thus and fade, 

Ye dainty cherry-flowers ? 
As when in some fond dream we see 

That die which most we cherish, 
So when we love you best, alas, 

Ye flutter down and perish ! ' 



80 FLO WEBS AND FAIRIES. 



THE FAIRY FLEET. 

T SAT beside a forest pool, 

And there I chanced to see 
Come sweeping o'er the tiny tide 
A fairy argosy. 

The ships were shells of hazel-nuts 
That grow in greenwood dales ; 

Rose-petals on pine-needle masts 
Did serve them for their sails. 

The tiny navy moved in state 

Before a zephyr light, 
And as it swept along, I trow. 

It was a winsome sight ! 

But when the little admiral 
Did through his glass spy me, 

He turned and with his tiny fleet 
Fled far o'er that small sea ! 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 81 



THE BLUE-BELL CLOCK. 

T^HE blue-bell hourly rings her chime 

To let the fairies know the time. 
She rings it all the long night through, 
From set of sun till death of dew ; 
She rings it through the livelong day, — 
And every little elf and fay 
Prepares his meals and feeds his flock 
By this same dainty little clock. 



82 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 



I 



THE FAIRY CROWN. 

T MET three fays within a wood 

As I was walking there, 
Who wove a coronal of fern 

Commixed with maidenhair. 
'What make ye here, sweet maids/ I cried, 

* With this your dainty craft ? ' 
Whereat the fairest of the three 

Looked up and sweetly laughed, 
And said, ' This leafy crown we weave 

To set upon the head 
Of our dear Queen, who at dew-fall 

With Oberon will wed.' 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 83 



POPPIES. 

A PERFECT flowers of sweet midsummer days, 

The season's emblems ye, 

As nodding lazily 
Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, 

And soothe the tired gazer's sense 
With lulling surges of your softest somnolence. 



Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed 

With tender ruby glow. 

Not any flowers that blow 
Can match the glory of your gleaming red ; 

Such sunny-warm and dreamy hue 
Before ye lit your fires no garden ever knew. 



84 FLO WEBS AND FAIRIES. 

Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, 

And bright the velvet vest 

On the nasturtium's breast ; 
Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage, 

And bright the coreopsis' eye ; — 
But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie. 

Yet nature gifted you with no perfumes : 

The sweet old bergamot, 

The pale forget-me-not, 
And scores of other olden-fashioned blooms, 

Abound in balmy fragrancies ; — 
But ye no honey have to tempt the murmurous bees. 

And yet, soft, slumberous flowers, we love you well ; 

Your glorious crimson tide 

The mossy walk beside 
Holds all the garden in its drowsy spell ; 

And walking there we gladly bless 
Your queenly grace and all your languorous 
loveliness. 



FLO WEBS AND FAIRIES. 85 



THE ROSY RAIN. 

"piGWIGGIN once a-napping lay 

Pavilioned in the shade 
Of a rose-tree, whose petals fell 

And him all overlaid. 
But when he woke and found himself 

Deep in the rosy rain, 
He got him up and scampered off 

From where he late had lain. 



PINK CHEEKS. 

TN the starlight kindly fairies 
Gathering the elder-berries 

Make of them an ink, 
Which in cups of crocus steeping 
Bear they where sweet maids are sleeping 

And paint their cheeks all pink ! 



86 FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 



THE FAIRIES IN THE DAIRIES. 

TN the night-time come the fairies 
Breaking into farmers' dairies, 
Each one with a lantern bright 
Of a glow-worm's shining light. 
First they spread a golden gleam 
O'er the milk and make it cream, 
Giving it a taste more fine 
Than their own most dainty wine. 
Then they wrap the curded milk 
In filters fine of cobweb silk ; — 
This they take and quickly squeeze 
Into loaves of gilt-edge cheese, 
Which they skilfully dispose 
Down the dairy-bench in rows. 
Next, with neither noise nor clutter, 
Fashion they the golden butter, 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 87 

In a trice by magic power 
Making that which costs an hour 
Of weary work and many a turn 
To the milk-maid with her churn. 
Then having moulded it in presses, 
They lay it on soft water- cresses, 
And sprinkle it with sweetened dew 
Gathered from the violets blue. 

When their work is deftly done 
Ere the rising of the sun, 
To the garden out they go 
Where the dainty pansies grow. 
Here they hold their sprightly dance 
In and out among the plants. 
Footing featly to the tune 
Of the locust's small bassoon 
And Pigwiggin's purling whistle 
Whittled from a spike of thistle, 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 

Accompanied by pipers three 
On their oat-straw pipes so wee. 
When morning 'gins to light the sky, 
To their woodland homes they hie ; 
In their rose-leaf beds they creep 
And soon are sunk in balmy sleep, 
Each little head upon a pillow 
Of a downy pussy-willow. 



THE DEATH OF THE BEE. 

A LITTLE bee in search of sweets 

Flew in a lily's bell. 
And revelled in the lusciousness 

Of that soft honeyed cell. 
But as he sipped the nectary, 

O'ercome with rich perfume, 
He fainted unto death and lay 
For aye embalmed in bloom ! 



FLOWERS AND FAIRIES. 89 



PANSIES. 

O WEET baby faces do I see 

Along the garden beds, 
With pretty caps of velveteen 
Upon their dainty heads. 

Some purple are and some are blue, 
And some are golden yellow. 

With tiny neckerchief of green 
For every little fellow. 

The children of the garden they, 
So gladsome and so merry. 

And every one is tended by 
A loving little fairy. 



90 FLO WEES AND FAIRIES. 



THE QUAKEK-LADY. 

TI7ITHIN a dewy woodland dell 

I spied a Quaker-lady ; 
Her home was on a mossy bank 
Where all was cool and shady. 

And as I saw her sitting there 

So sweetly and demurely, 
I said, ' There's peace within thy heart. 

Dear Quaker-lady, surely ! ' 



TBANSLATIONS. 



TO MERCURY. 

Horace, I., 10. 

n SUASIVE son of Atlas' line, 

Dear, artful Mercury, 'twas thine 
To teach the fathers of the race 
A smoother speech, a gentler grace. 

Thou messenger of mighty Jove 
And all the gods that dwell above. 
To thee I sing, O subtle sire 
Alike of thieves and of the lyre ! 

Apollo, once, reft of his quiver. 

With threatening mandates made thee shiver ; 

Yet angry as he was, he laughed 

At thy ox-stealing, infant craft. 

Rich Priam, aided by thy wile. 
The proud Atridse did beguile ; 
Thessalian watch-fires burned in vain. 
Unharmed he crossed the hostile plain. 



94 TRANSLATIONS. 

All righteous souls are borne along 
To realms of bliss, an airy throng, 
Led by that golden rod of thine, 
O loved of all the race divine, 
Sweet Mercurv ! 



TO VIRGIL. 

Horace, I., 24. 

TTTHY checked or hidden need our sorrows be 

For one so fondly loved? Melpomene, 
God-gifted mistress of the moving lyre 
And melting voice, my melancholy strains inspire ! 

And does our dear Quintilius repose 
In death's enduring sleep ? Ah, when shall those 
Twin sisters Faith and Justice, Truth severe, 
And Modesty another find that is his peer ! 



TO VIRGIL. 95 

Bewept of all the noble was his end, 
But chiefest wept of thee, his fondest friend, 
My Virgil. Yet thy prayers, alas, are vain 
That ask the gods to lend Quintilius again. 

What though thy music's magic far excel 

That Orphean lute which held the trees in spell, — 

Yet never, never can the life be made 

To stir again the pulses of that empty shade, 

Which Mercury, relentless of our doom, 
Drives on before him to the realms of gloom. 
Hard fate indeed ! But what we cannot cure 
Is better borne if we but patiently endure. 



96 TRANSLATIONS. 



TO CALLIOPE. 

Horace, III., 4. 

A LENGTHENED strain, Calliope, 

Melodious queen, descend and sing, 
With plaintive pipe or shrilling voice, 
If so it please, or on Phcebean string ! 

Hear ye, or am I made the sport 
Of raptures sweet? I seem to hear, 

And stray through hallowed groves, the seat 
Of playful winds and pleasant waters clear. 

In childhood's hour, when tired with play 

I dreaming lay on Voltur's steep, 
Far from my home, the storied doves 

Embowered my bed with leaves, a verdant heap. 

A thing of wonder 'twas to all 

Who habit Acherontia's tops, 
Or have their homes in loamy meads 

Of low Forentum or 'mid Bantine copse — 



TO CALLIOPE. 97 

How, safe from bears and vipers fell, 

A god-protected child I lay 
And fearless slept, while I was strewn 

With gathered myrtle and with sacred bay. 

Yours, O ye Muses, yours I am, 

If now the Sabine heights I scale, 
Or if I joy in Tibur's slopes. 

Or Baiae's strand, or cool Pr^eneste's vale. 

Because I love your founts and choirs 

Philippi's rout destroyed not me, — 
Nor tree accursed, nor beetling rocks 

Of Palinurus in the stormy sea. 

While ye are with me, willingly 

Fierce Bosphorus I'll travel o'er, 
A sailor bold, or dauntless dare 

The burning sands of the Assyrian shore. 

I'll visit Britons, rude to guests, 

The Concan, loving horse's blood ; 
Gelonians, quiver-bearing race, 

I'll visit, and, unharmed, the Scythian flood. 



98 TRANSLATIONS. 

To noble Csesar — seeking end 

Of toils and giving rest from strife 
To war-worn troops in distant tow^ns — 

In grot Pierian ye lend new life. 

Ye give mild counsel, and rejoice 

In kindly giving it. We know 
How Titans cursed and that huge crew 

Were by the falling thunderbolts laid low 

Of Him who rules the sluggish earth, 
The teeming marts, the wind-tossed main, 

And gloomy realms of Acheron — 

Who governs gods and men with righteous reign. 

Dire terror was inspired in Jove 

By that dread band, proud of their might, 
The brothers striving to upraise 

Tall Pelion on dark Olympus' height. 

But 'gainst Minerva's sounding shield 
Rushing, what could those giants do, 

Typhoeus, Rhoetus, Mimas strong, 

Porphyrion, threatening form, or he that threw 



TO CALLIOPE. 99 

Uprooted trees, Enceladus, 

The darter bold? Here, keen for fray, 
Stood Vulcan, and dame Juno there, 

Divine Apollo, too, who ne'er doth lay 

His bow aside, who laves his locks. 

Unloosed, in pure Castalian dew, 
Who haunts his woods and Lycian groves, 

The lord of Patara and Delos too. 

Ill-counselled force falls self-oppressed ; 

Force, rightly ruled, the gods promote 
To greater heights, while they abhor 

Forces to every evil end devote. 

Let hundred-handed Gyas prove 

How true my maxims are, and famed 

Attempter of Diana chaste, 

Orion, by her virgin arrows tamed. 

Earth, cast on her own monsters, grieves, 
And mourns her young, to Orcus' gloom 

By lightning sent ; nor can swift fire 

The mass of ^tna, placed above, consume. 



100 TBANSLATIONS. 

The liver of base Tityus 

The vulture quits not, there assigned 
A guard of guilt ; Pirithoiis, 

Too fond, is by three hundred chains confined ! 



THE BANDUSIAN SPKING. 

Horace, III., 13. 

A FOUNT that dost the glass outshine. 

May flagons wreathed with flowers be thine ! 
To-morrow I shall give to thee 
A kid, whose forehead swelling free 
In vain foretokens war and love. 

Child of the flocks that frisk and play, — 
His budding life shall ebb away. 
To color like the rosy wine 
Thy surface cool and crystalline. 



THE BANDUSIAN SPRING. 101 

Fierce, burning Sirius knows thee not ; 
•The plough-worn oxen seek the spot 
Where thy sweet water flecked with foam 
Refreshes all the race that roam. 

I'll rank thy name 

With founts of fame, 
While singing of the ilex tall 
That overhangs thy waterfall, 

Bandusian Spring ! 



